


“To the very best of times, John.”

by consultinggalpals (sansa_undergrind)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Episode: The Abominable Bride, M/M, POV John Watson, The Tarmac Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 23:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5985340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansa_undergrind/pseuds/consultinggalpals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at what possibly went through John's mind during TAB.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“To the very best of times, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a ficlet on tumblr [here](http://consultinggalpals.tumblr.com/post/136618375469/to-the-very-best-of-times-john).

John’s left hand spasms.

He clenches it twice, shakes his fingers, feels the knuckles crack lightly as he looks unblinkingly at Sherlock’s own.

His throat constricts around everything that is still left unsaid. Everything they had shared, everything they had promised.

His left hand is a painful fist against his thigh, shaking, shaking, shaking.

He forces himself to move and Sherlock’s hand is a warm weight in his right one. He can feel Sherlock’s pulse beating steadily, slightly accelerated, and he never wants to let go. But he has to.

He has to stand at parade’s rest and watch Sherlock fly away from him when all he wants to do is curl into a ball and never get up again. But he has to.

For Sherlock.

Mary’s hand immediately slips into his and John almost recoils in disgust. His hand was still warm, still tingling a bit, or maybe it’s all in his head. Nevertheless, he wanted to savour the illusion that some part of Sherlock was still with him.

Instead there goes Mary once again pettily trying to stake a claim on him, to own him.

 _You do not own me, you never did_.

Before he can so much as shrug her off, Mycroft is stepping out of the car, waving at them with fretful unease. Mary’s panic is palpable, a new threat is here, Moriarty’s inexplicable return.

“There’s an East wind coming,” John says and giddiness spreads from the tip of his ears to the tip of his toes.

_Sherlock._

The plane turns around, a bubble bursts into John’s chest, his hands are now still with the promise of second chances.

Nothing else matters, except the smallest part of him being almost bothered that Mycroft gets to board before him, that he gets to see him before he does.

But it’s short-lived, because Sherlock is sitting there, all inky curls and long limbs folded in on himself, and John feels adrift in a tidal wave of relief.

He crosses his arms across his chest, tight, lest he’s overcome with the need to touch, squeeze, hug, _feel._ He needs to keep his emotions in check; it would not do to show Mary just how vulnerable he is at this very moment. How very close Sherlock and he had come to… something.

She would gladly rip it all out of his chest with a cool stare and an enigmatic grin.

Sherlock opens his mouth and suddenly John realises something is off. His eyes are red-rimmed, his pupils dilated, never fixing on one spot for longer than a heartbeat. He rambles on about a bride and ghosts and being immersed in his mind palace and even as John says, “No it’s true, I’ve seen it, he goes into a sort of trance,” he knows this time it’s different.

This time he is a witness to Mycroft’s defences crumbling down in a pile of dust, as he asks his little brother for a list, _the_ list, he emphasise.

The piece of paper flutters on the cabin’s floor between the seats, as Sherlock hides his face once again, turns it towards the window. His fingers are restless, they tap away against his chin, against his thigh, against the arm rest.

With the same levity with which he had once scoffed “Seriously, _this_ guy a junkie, have you _met_ him?” John bends down to pick the paper up.

 _Cocaine, heroin, codeine…_ the list goes on, it fills one half of the scrap of paper in Sherlock’s neat handwriting, progressively getting messier and blotchier and through the fog of it all John feels bile rising at the back of his throat.

He doesn’t mean to shout. He had always thought himself better than that, he had _promised himself_ he would be better than that. Losing his temper once at a drugged out Sherlock in smelly clothes had accomplished nothing and been more than enough.

Without realising it, he’s sitting down too, as Mary keeps prodding Sherlock and Mycroft alternatively, ever the meddling Puck.

Sherlock keeps rambling, nothing of what he says seems to make any sense, and John starts to feel prickles behind his eyes and he knows they need to get out of here, they need to take Sherlock somewhere safe, where he can come down from his high in a controlled environment.

“What did you say?” Sherlock slurs suddenly, pointing at John.

“I didn’t say anything,” John answers, not quite meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

He feels sick, his fist crumpling the horrific proof of Sherlock’s suicidal intents. But when he looks up, Sherlock’s eyes roll back into his head and he slumps back into his seat.

John is back on his feet in an instant, eyes wide.

All anger dissipates; he clamps down on it fiercely. Now it’s not the time, he will absolutely not let Sherlock slip away from him, not again, not _this time_.

“He’s going into shock; we need to get him to hospital.”

“A tad melodramatic, don’t you think,” Mary pipes up.

John sniffs once, pointedly. His left hand clenches into a fist, to prevent it from wrapping around Mary’s windpipe.

 _We still don’t know if the baby is real, keep it together Watson_.

“Mycroft,” he says instead. “Call an ambulance, _now_.”

He reaches for one of Sherlock’s wrist to search for a pulse (and doesn’t that feel familiar) and it’s there, erratic and feeble, but _there_. Gingerly he opens first one then the other eye, wishing he had his pen torch with him.

“Sherlock,” he murmurs. “Sherlock can you hear me?”

Behind him, he can hear Mycroft talking with the flight attendants, he can _feel_ Mary’s stare piercing his back like twin daggers, and he imagines he can still make out the jarred high-pitched voice coming from the screens in the cockpit.

Everything blurs together and his sole centre of focus becomes Sherlock’s face, blank, open mouthed, eyes unresponsive.

“Sherlock please,” he whispers, curling his whole hand around Sherlock’s wrist. “This is important to me, come back please, please come back.”

He’s not even sure he’s saying the words out loud anymore, out of his mouth come only an unintelligible stream of pleading noises.

Recollections of different times he had so desperately pleaded swim through his brain, the time he had said loud and clear “Sherlock, we’re losing you”, and yet again a time when Sherlock had already been lost, blood on the pavement and on his fingers as he held a limp silent wrist in his grip.

Not this time, _please god not this time_ , he had already lost him so many times, and then found him, and then had him snatched right away again, and John’s going _mad_ with it.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before he starts to feel the first twitches of wakefulness under his grip. Sherlock is waking up and that alone fills his chest with warmth and hope.

“Sherlock,” he says once more, his voice louder but still wavering.

Sherlock’s eyes focus on John’s face instantly and the whole of his face softens.

Crinkles around his eyes and lips twisted sideways in a tired smile, Sherlock looks up at John with so much undisguised affection, it makes everything inside of John feel like it’s turning into jelly. He releases Sherlock’s wrist gently.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly.

“Of course I’m alright,” and with that Sherlock is up and about. He moves away from John, from his attempted OD, from those words that are still so desperately unspoken, and towards the real world and the threat of Moriarty.

Mycroft tries to stop him, of course he does, John has seen through his façade now, he knows they both care far too much about Sherlock. Worse yet, so does Mary.

“No time for that,” Sherlock all but shouts. “I need to get back to Baker Street.”

John’s left hand spasms.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @ [consultinggalpals](http://consultinggalpals.tumblr.com)


End file.
